


De Vil & The Heartless

by GracefulDemon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Once Upon a Time in Wonderland (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Blood and Gore, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4630404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GracefulDemon/pseuds/GracefulDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In desperate need of help, in a town that wants nothing to do with her, Cruella De Vil finds an unlikely ally after her own heart.<br/>Meanwhile, Rumplestiltskin and The Author lock themselves in Gold's Pawn Shop, with a working pen, ink, and a book to rewrite the history of the entire planet, sending the small town of Storybrooke into chaos, and Cruella De Vil on a quest to escape the pain awaiting her in the near future. And the future can come at any moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Vil & The Heartless

**Author's Note:**

> I believe this might just be the first Charming Devil fanfic on the web, so yay for me!  
> I have many things planned for this fic, and I'll tell you right now, this will be dark and angsty. Please, bear in mind that many of the things depicted in this story do not represent my personal opinions or moral code.  
> Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. Most of the settings also don't belong to me. The plot is partially mine.  
> Now, without further ado, I hope you enjoy the reading.  
> Thank you!

Cruella De Vil was dead.

No, life had not been everything she ever dreamed of but it could have been close; it could have been so much more, if only she was the one pulling the strings... Even the sharpest mind can be blinded by hope. She should have known better, she should have backed away and stuck to the plan but victory had been so close. So close. But even as a queen, Cruella was just another chess piece in the Sorcerer’s game, and no matter how much she tried she could not cheat. She could do nothing but witness as her last minute plans crumbled, and Isaac slipped through her fingers with her small prize in his pocket.

She would never kill again.

 

Silvery threads of moonlight slipped through the dark heavy clouds, and danced upon her broken body, sprawled at the bottom of the precipice, motionless... but not cold. Her lungs had exploded on impact, her ribs were cracked, and the broken bones pierced through her like rusty knifes. Yet, she was still dying.

The sound of neat and solid footsteps did not distract her from the agony, but it resonated in her ears like a beacon she could not ignore. A surge of dark energy rushed through her system, and lifted her off the ground. She never wished she could scream more than in that moment, and then it all happened at once. Her bones settled back into place and reattached, her blown up lungs healed, and a desperate gasp erupted from her bloodied throat.

The force levitating her broke suddenly, and she plummeted to the ground. Cruella groaned, and slowly rolled on her side. Everything ached.

“Nice to see you survived the fall, dearie.”

_Shut up, you insufferable imp_ , she wanted to say, but her throat refused to do anything other than breathe.

“Unfortunately, for you,” he continued, kneeling on one knee, beside her. There was a tone of wickedness in his voice, and as much as she had appreciated it in the past, Cruella knew she was in trouble. “I just can’t afford to let the Saviour know.”

She tried to whistle but it came out a feeble sound, so low it barely echoed through the forest.

“I’m afraid that won’t do you much good, Cruella my dear.” He rose to his feet, producing a sphere of black smoke in his hand. “You’re not leaving these woods alive.”

“Pongo... sic!”

The Dalmatian came out of nowhere, snarling and vicious, with its mouth ready to tear his mistress’ attacker to shreds. It bit into the Dark One’s arm, and scratched at his face, until he was forced to vanish himself. The dog continued to snarl until it deemed there was no immediate threat, and then ran to Cruella.

Clawing at the stone beneath her, she pushed herself up on her trembling arms, and kneeled. Then she looked up. The night was too dark to make out the top of the precipice but she remembered falling; it was high – a fall impossible to survive.

She spit out the blood in her mouth, and rubbed her red-stained lips on the white fur of her coat. The Dark One wanted her dead—and what the Dark One wants the Dark One gets. A few hours earlier, she might have told him ‘ _Go for it, darling. Like I care_ ’ but like so many times before, acting on rushed decisions brought her little other than regret. There ought to be something more to life than to simply exist. Dying was too permanent to be a valid solution. No, she wanted to live.

She snapped her fingers, getting Pongo’s attention, and blew a line of green shimmering smoke into its face. Pongo’s eyes brightened. _Help._ Once it received her command, the dog’s eyes cleared, and it walked into the woods. Cruella followed.

It led her to a surprisingly crowded place—definitely not what she wanted—but then again, she hadn’t been too specific in her instructions. Pongo had been living among these heroes for thirty years, of course it would associate help with them. Then again...

She picked a lock of hair, and held it in front of her eyes. If her hair was blonde that meant the ink was out of her body, and it meant that everything it did to her was, therefore, undone. At first glance—and perhaps even second glance—no one would recognise her... except for her fur coat.

“Oh, bother” she grumbled beneath her breath.

Pongo sat at the entrance to The Rabbit Hole, and barked. Cruella whined. “Fine,” she said, taking off her fur, and shivering in the cold night air. “If I am going to die at least I won’t be sober.” She threw her beloved fur coat in the trash, and followed the Dalmatian into the bar.

“Excuse me, miss. We don’t allow animals in-”

Cruella didn’t let him finish the sentence. With a small—almost imperceptible—blow into the young man’s face, he was at her mercy.

“Won’t you make an exception for us, darling?” she asked sweetly.

“Uh- Yes. Yes, of course.”

“I want the most secluded table—some place hidden from whoever comes through this door.” The man nodded, and led her to an empty table to the far corner of the bar. She sat on the sofa, removed her ankle boots, and crossed her legs. Not the most elegant way to behave in a public place but she was relatively hidden, and her feet were killing her.

“What would you like to-”

“Gin. Bring the bottle.” The waiter went, returned with the bottle and a glass, and left without a word.

Cruella didn’t bother with the glass. Unscrewing the cap, she gulped down almost a fourth of the full bottle in one go, washing down the taste of blood in her mouth, and suppressed a grimace. She had never gotten used to the taste. Then she leaned back against the corner of the L sofa, and brought her knees up, disconnecting herself from the outside world, and delving into her own.

Hard as it was to admit, she could not control her emotional outbursts; when something went wrong, it was easier to explode than to calm down, and revise the plan—the plans never worked, anyway. For once, she would like to take her frustrations on something that bled—just once. Instead, she was left with gin, and its bitter aftertaste.

She let the bottle hang from her hand, and hid her face in her knees, burying her fingers in her hair. There was no help here—there was no help for her.

Pongo’s cold nose nudged against her arm, and she wondered how ironic life could be. The comforting gesture caused her eyes to water and sting. She would not cry but the need was not lost to her. In all her years, there were no memories of tears, and yet, her heart remembered the feeling. It remembered small trembling hands, a fancy tea party under the red rain, and hot drops of water rolling down a face that was hers but was not her. These abstract flashes of colour, and smell, and taste, and sound had been with her since she was a little girl, weighting on her like a stolen piece of her identity, but she could never make much sense of it.

“Um...” A familiar voice startled her from her thoughts. “I don’t mean to bother but are you all right?”

Of all the people in the bar, it had to be him. He would recognise her in a heartbeat. Then again, she was already dead, so what difference did it make? She lifted her head up from her knees, and looked at him. For a second, he was truly oblivious, and then his grip faltered around his glass.

“Oh my-”

“Oh look, if it isn’t Sheriff Chiselled Chin.” She scoffed. “Just my luck...”

“You- You’re-”

“No, darling, I’m clearly a vision. Go away.”

As if understanding his mistress’ words, Pongo bit the bottom of David’s jeans, and pulled him towards the sofa, causing him to lose his balance, and fall flat on top of Cruella. Apparently, letting the prince go wasn’t part of the plan.

David awkwardly composed himself, uttering a half-hearted apology, and put some distance between them, but he did not leave. Instead, he sat down, and scrutinised her with his curious blue eyes. His mouth opened, and then pressed shut, and she imagined a whirlpool of words going about his mind as he tried to pick the right ones to express himself. He must have seen her _seemingly dead_ body sprawled at the bottom of the forest cliff.

“How-” He shook his head. “How are you alive?”

It was, indeed, a great mystery; a question that currently could only be answered by big maybes. How had she survived? Maybe, the ink had protected her, somehow; maybe, Isaac’s note prevented her from taking her own life, as well; or maybe, the Sorcerer, or some other higher power, just loved seeing her dance, and break her ankles before the music stopped.

She ignored his eyes for a moment, and focused on the big red and golden analogue clock, on the wall behind the bar. 10:38, it marked. She hadn’t noticed the time when she got in but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes ago; there was still time to get in her car, and leave Storybrooke. Isaac was a lost cause. Now that he was with Rumplestiltskin, she had to give up on getting back what he took from her. How bad could it be, really? To live the rest of her life without magic, grow old, and wither like a weed... It sounded like torture, and torture was only fun when inflicted upon others. No. She would rather die with some dignity, even if it meant hiding behind others for protection. This gave her an idea.

Pongo might have been a silly dog, but if it brought her here, surely there was someone around willing to help even the likes of her, and then, none other than Prince Charming stopped by her table. He looked positively delighted to see her alive and reasonably well, which was surprising enough, but would he be as enthusiastic to help her?

One should know better than to trust someone other than oneself.

The thing about villains is, you can always trust them to betray you at some point, while heroes will win your precious trust and betray you anyway, usually for very stupid and very emotional reasons. Prince Charming was every bit the hero, and yet, given the circumstances, he was already winning her over.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know why I am alive.”

His curious gaze faltered; the answer seemed to resonate with him, somehow. She wanted to ask why, but given their history, and his sober state, she doubted he would answer honestly, that is if he answered at all.

“So, what is a hero like you, doing at a bar like this, so late at night?”

He huffed out a chuckle. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Oh, you would have to get in line, darling. Besides, a girl can only die so much in one day.” _Although, I must confess, you have me curious_ , she thought to herself, mildly pleased.

“I bet.” He smiled, and then leaned down to pet Pongo. “I’d ask how they let him in here but I don’t think I’d like the answer.”

“Given the range of you analytical skills, I reckon you really wouldn’t.”

“So let me guess,” he said, sitting back and returning his attention to her. “The body at the bottom of the cliff wasn’t really you, and now you’ve disguised yourself so you c-”

“Ugh! And here I thought you would surprise me for once.” She took another sip from the bottle. This would not work; he was too fast to jump into the wrong conclusions, and surely, would be too slow to come up with an acceptable plan. She needed someone with more brain than brawn.

“So, it was you?”

“I knew I was going to die tonight, I just never thought it would be out of boredom.”

She heard him inhale sharply, the way people do right before they throw a funny remark, but then he did not. For the first time, it looked as though he was using his head before his mouth, and his tone changed.

“What happened?”

This was it; this was the question she’d been waiting for. One careless sentence, and it came sooner than she would have wished; she would have to be the one taking the leap of faith.

“Tell me; what would you be willing to do to protect a life?”

“Who’s trying to kill you?”

His quick and accurate deduction surprised her, and she noticed the change in his expression; brow furrowed, his lips a thin line. He refused to look anywhere else but into her eyes, and though she rather enjoyed attention, his was making her a tad uncomfortable. The look of concern in his face was too personal, as if her predicament was his.

She decided it was best to ignore his overflowing empathy for her situation, and went straight to the point.

“The Dark One. I require a place to hide.”

David tsked, and mumbled something beneath his breath. “Okay, I know someone who can help. Let’s go.”

“Wait! Ah- You’re helping me?”

He looked at her, and shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course. Why not?”

“Um...” She didn’t even know where to start, but the more she thought about it, the more she realised that she had never wronged him much. Had she? “Because you’re a hero, and I am a villain... and I kidnapped your grandson earlier today.”

“And destroyed public property,” he added.

“In my defence, I only drank that ghastly place across the street dry; Mal burnt the car.”

“And you could have hurt Henry but you didn’t. That has to count for something.”

How naïve he was. “You put too much faith in the wicked, darling.”

“And you put too little faith in people.”

“I know better than to trust someone other than myself.”

David got up, taking the gin bottle from her hand, and placing it on the table, and then offered his hand. “Make me an exception, then. If I betray you, I’m sure you can find a creative way to make me pay.” And there was his charming smile, again.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her thoughts screaming in anger. _Do you think I would be so stupid to trust you of all people?_ That screamed the loudest in her mind, but the truth was, she did not know Storybrooke well enough, and hard as it was to accept, she desperately needed help. She groaned, leaning down to put on her boots, and accepted his hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To the one place in town Rumplestiltskin doesn’t step on.”

At least that sounded safe enough.

They left The Rabbit Hole through the back exit, with Pongo following behind them, and between them settled a comfortable silence. At night, Storybrooke turned into a ghost town, the inhabitants locked safely in their homes or drinking at the pubs, and their cars parked. Walking in the middle of the road, through empty streets, gave off the illusion that there was no one else but them. They were alone in the world, and that made her feel safe.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the sweet energising scent of ozone, and a note of ice; a storm was coming. Cruella loved the smell in the air before it rained—it brought memories of the world she lived in as a child—but she wasn’t as fond of the cold that came with it. She shivered, missing her beloved fur coat... now, probably the bed of some stray cat infested with fleas, or a nest of diseased rats. It almost made her weep.

“Here,” David said, removing his jacket, and holding it open for her to slip into.

She arched her eyebrow at him, and crossed her arms. “Why would I-”

“Just take it.”

The sudden concern for her well being was suspicious, but her arms were bare, and she was starting to freeze. It was not without reluctance that she accepted the jacket but once he snuggled her into it she moaned at the warmth; it was not fur but it had a lovely wool lining.

“Thank you,” she said, averting her eyes.

He smiled at her. “You’re welcome.” Then he took her hand again, and they continued walking.

Another gust of icy wind blew against her face, and she zipped the jacket all the way up, unprepared for the sudden attack on her senses. She almost stopped dead in her tracks. The wool lining was saturated with his scent. She inhaled deeply. His was not the smell of an unrefined man; he wore expensive perfume: lavender, cardamom, sandalwood, and something else that made her want to bite into his skin, and scratch her red nails down his back. She bit her lip. Her hand twitched, and tightened in his, and her knees _might_ have wobbled a little. In a perfect world he wouldn’t have noticed but there was a hint on a smile on his lips. His lips...

A burning shiver ran up her spine and trembled at her fingertips. She didn’t like this. She wanted to shake her hand free, and never cross paths with him again, and yet, the mere idea made her nervous. She did not like this at all.

Lost in her inner turmoil, she didn’t even realise they were standing in front of the church.

“Let’s go inside,” he said.

The big wooden door opened before he could take a step, and out walked a non-too-pleased Blue Fairy—or Mother Superior, whatever suited their fancy these days. She took one look at Cruella, and it was as though her answer was set in stone before the question was even put.

Cruella didn’t like this, either. She had asked for his help, not hers. To say she didn’t want to pluck out her eyes for daring to look at her with such disdain would be an outright lie. Her mind was so full with different methods of torture that the conversation happening beside her registered like a distant echo.

“I cannot allow her to stay here.”

“Rumplestiltskin is trying to _kill_ her! Aren’t you supposed to help indiscriminately?”

“Yes, but not those who would return the favour by stabbing us in the back. I advise you to do the same; there is no good in her. Good night.” The Blue Fairy turned her back on them, and shut the big wooden door behind her without another look.

“Oh, great! That’s just... fuck,” he breathed out, pinching the bridge of his nose.

She watched him panic, pacing back and forth, and mumbling too low for her to make out a word. He was worried. And this was hard to accept at first because no one had ever cared much for her, but he was worried. He was truly worried.

She pulled him away from the church. “Come.”

“Where? This was my only idea.”

“It’s all right.”

“Cruella.” He turned her to look at him. “Cruella, this is not all right! I don’t care how much of a villain you are; Gold is trying to kill you, and if I do nothing he will! Do you have a death wish?”

Cruella snatched her hand from his, and clenched her fists. Yes, maybe she had a death wish. Was that really so hard to believe? Was it so unfathomable that she too had the right to give up? Of course, he wouldn’t know about giving up; he had it easy, because heroes always win, and the villains are left behind to die, like worthless creatures whose sole purpose is to make them look valiant. Slay the dragon, steal the siren’s voice, strip the woman of her strength; do it for the greater good, for they are one, and we are many.

She wanted to slap him across the face, but could she really blame him for growing up in a world without shades of grey? She wanted to slap him anyway. Instead, she turned her back and walked away, and the first droplets of rain fell from the sky.

_Perfect_ , she thought. _Just perfect..._

They fell scarcely at first, some landing gently on her hair, and others rolling down her cheeks like cold tears but they soon grew in number and aggressiveness. The rain poured down on her like an armour of sound, the pitter-patter establishing a sense of peacefulness that made her light, until she realised that—along with the click of her heeled boots—that was all she could hear. There were no footsteps following behind her.

Despite all, Pongo walked by her side, oblivious and unquestionably loyal, and she wondered if this would last had she been wearing her Dalmatian coat. It wouldn’t surprise her if it did; stranger things had happened that night.

She clutched the jacket tighter around her shivering frame, and sighed; some of the warmth was still his.

Empathy was a skill she was born without; harbouring feelings for others was something she _could not_ do. She went about her life emotionally detached from people and their afflictions, and though she fantasised of his arms around her, and his lips on her skin, this was not for his sake. Selfish was her nature, and so it would always be. What was new, however, was the fact that she wanted it for no reason other than that. She wanted him because she wanted him – he had nothing to offer that would interest her more. And this was confusing.

She was no stranger to lust: the physical attraction, the hunger, the heat; she knew that all too well but what she battled with was not so simple. It could not be solved with a night of passion, and forgotten in the morning, because in the morning she wanted to wake up by his side.

A ray of lightning split the sky in the distance, startling her back to reality. She would never have him. He would never want her. They would never be more than enemies.

Each step grew heavier than the last, dragging as she fought to stand on her trembling feet. The wet leather of her boots scraped against her Achilles’ tendon, slowly opening a bleeding wound that she had yet to register. All she could think of was the man she was leaving behind, holding her trust in his hands.

It was better this way. This way it would hurt less.

“Cruella! Cruella, wait!”

His voice paralysed her in the middle of the road, making her heart race, and she was overcome by an overpowering sense of nausea and giddiness. It weakened her knees. She pressed her eyes shut, trying to control her breathing, and listened to the water on the asphalt as it splashed beneath his boots.

“Cruella?”

She opened her eyes. He squinted at her through the pouring rain, breathing heavily, with a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of his parted lips, hair wet and flat against his head, and skin shining under the unflattering street light. He was sinfully handsome.

“There’s another option, not too far from here. Do you still want my help?”

She said nothing.

“I-I mean... it doesn’t come with the protection of the fairies—he could easily walk in there and find you but I’ll-” He bit down the rest of the sentence. “At least, you’ll have some place to stay. Maybe he won’t even think about looking for you there. It’s not like I made the location public...” He looked at her expectantly but his optimism faltered when her mouth remained shut. “Say something.”

She focused on the ground, not trusting her voice at the moment but extended her gloved hand for him to take, and that was enough for him. He pulled her off the road and into the woods, rushing through the trees in the darkness, and tripping over ancient roots that sprung out of the ground, until they came to a small wooden cabin in a small forest clearing.

“There it is!” he said, looking back at her with enthusiasm, as if that was his grand palace or his best kept secret.

It was a simple construction but sturdy-looking, very similar to the Dark One’s, but this one had a warmth about it. She did not want to think of the reason why, but it came to her regardless. He probably shared it with his wife; a retreat from the town’s busy centre. It was a love-nest. Suddenly, standing in the rain was far more appealing than a dry place to sleep but when he pushed the door open she followed without a word.

“Now, it’s nothing special...” he said, closing the door.

Cruella stood in the darkness, listening as he moved about, and then there was light. A copper oil lamp on the mantel shelf cast the interior of the wooden cabin in a faint orange light but it was enough. It truly was nothing special; it looked bigger on the outside but what it lacked in space made up for a sense of comfort she had not experienced before. The first thing she noticed was the lack of a bed, and that was good. There was, though, a large plush sofa pushed against the wall, beneath the left front window, that looked positively inviting. In the middle of the cabin stood a rustic stone fireplace that reminded her of the Enchanted Forest, and all the times she had to heat the water of her own bath, and beyond it she could not see. To the right was a simple counter and a sink, and that was it.

“I use this mostly for storage but it’s got indoor plumbing so, there’s that.”

Storage with indoor plumbing... Now that sounded highly unlikely.

“There’s a bathroom behind the fireplace; no hot water until I light the fire, though. And I don’t have any food...” He looked embarrassed at the admission. “But if there’s anything else I can-”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I- What do you mean?”

“We’re not family, we’re not friends, and you could hardly tolerate my presence until tonight. Why are you helping me?”

“You asked.”

“You could have refused.”

“Someone’s trying to kill you. I can’t just walk away and let it happen,” he stated flatly.

She should have expected the stab. All the concern for her safety had nothing to do with her but with his detestable heroism and sense of honour. As an individual, she meant nothing. However, that was not the whole truth. He was hiding something, and he was going to talk.

“Tell me or I will leave.”

His breath caught in his throat. His blue eyes widened, as if her words had shocked him to the core, and then they narrowed in pain, begging. “Don’t.”

“Why?”

He lowered his head, and looked away. “I’ll go grab some firewood,” he said, rushing for the door.

Cruella grabbed his arm with vicious strength. She needed an answer, however, violence would not make him talk—her prince was a gentle creature—so she eased her grip, letting it slide down to his hand, and lowered her voice to a gentler tone.

“Tell me,” she murmured, demanding nothing, giving him a fake sense of choice, and, lowering his gaze to his feet, he answered.

“You make me feel.”

The reply caught her off-guard. “What?” This was not what she had expected.

“I can’t feel. I- You’ll think I’m pathetic.”

She bit down the witty remark at the tip of her tongue. “Would it matter?”

His lips stretched into a lopsided smile.

“I don’t know how you do it. Ever since you showed up I started noticing but I thought it was time finally fixing me the way it usually fixes everything... but it wasn’t. I noticed it tonight. As soon as you walked into The Rabbit Hole I _felt_ it, and when I approached you... I was so damn overwhelmed it took me half an hour to gather the courage to walk up to your table.” He huffed out a chuckle, shaking his head, and then he turned, admiring her hand around his wrist.

He looked into her eyes. “You’re right. Helping you makes no sense—especially given our history—but right now I don’t care. I have been empty for so long that I started believing it was normal; faking smiles, faking anger, faking love, faking pleasure and pain, it became normal to me. My life turned into a play. But not tonight; tonight I don’t need to act.” He paused, searching her eyes for understanding, but he would only find scepticism. His tale was nonsensical. “Cruella, you owe me nothing, and I know you couldn’t care less about me but if you stay, just for tonight, I will owe you. I just-” He lowered his head, pressing his eyes shut. “Please, don’t go.”

She didn’t know what to think. He never looked so vulnerable in her eyes, and yet, she could not trust him; though a part of her wanted to, she simply couldn’t. He was a hero.

She let go of his arm, and zipped down the jacket just enough to uncover her mouth. “A fire would be lovely, darling,” she said, faking a soft smile.

“You’re staying?”

“I don’t have much of a choice.”

A closed smile stretched across his lips, and he sighed in relief. “I’ll go get that firewood,” he said, fetching the big willow basket by the fireplace, and heading back for the door.

“Wait.” She removed her right glove, and slid her fingertips from his jaw line to his chin, enjoying how he stiffened at the touch, and blew a line of shimmering smoke into him, admiring how his eyes lit up under her control. “While you’re outside, send Pongo back to his present owner.” And with that he walked out, and closed the door behind him. He would have questions, after this.

Cruella was left alone with her thoughts. Did she believe him? No, but the truth would reveal itself. She peeked through the front windows, making sure he was nowhere in sight, and pulled the one in the tiny kitchenette wide open, letting the panes hit the walls with the force of the wind, and then hung his jacket on one of the coat hooks behind the door. It was enough to set the scene.

She hid behind the fireplace, out of immediate sight, and started removing her wet clothes. She was planning to stay, lies or no lies. After stripping down to her black lace lingerie, she placed her soaked jumpsuit on the arm of a chair pushed against the wall to the left, beside a big old wardrobe, then she sat down, and removed her boots, hissing as the leather scraped against the bleeding wounds on her Achilles’ tendon; these would leave scars. She stashed her boots neatly under the chair, and stood, biting down a cry. Her feet ached, the skin red, swollen, and sensitive, but she walked, and pressed against the stone wall. She didn’t wait long.

The front door opened, and was quickly kicked shut. She had expected him to come in commenting on the weather or on how he couldn’t wait to warm up by the fire but he said nothing, and the silence extended, until all she could hear was her breathing, growing louder, and louder in her ears, making her paranoid to the point she had to hold her breath, and clutch a hand over her mouth and nose.

“Cruella?”

She pressed her eyes shut. Her air deprived lungs tightened in her chest. _Just a little longer..._

“Cruella?” he called, again, but no one answered.

The willow basket tumbled to the floor with a heavy thump, and the cabin drowned in the sounds of the storm. For a long moment, there was nothing but the rain pouring down on the roof, and the rumbling thunder far in the distance but then his sobs broke through the peaceful melody, quiet, pained, and lost. He hadn’t lied.

She uncovered her mouth and nose, letting out a trembling breath, and peeked through the wall. He sat on the floor with his back against the door, knees bent, and his face hidden in his arms, his shoulders heaving with each gasp and whimper. The willow basket lay fallen beside him, filled with firewood. The image tugged at her apathetic heart. Whatever it was he went through, he had tasted the bitter side of light, and was slipping into darkness. The distance between them narrowed, and she decided then that, if he was to be her exception she was going to treat him as such. No more games. No more lies. Not to him.

She left the safety of her hiding place, and limped her way to the kitchenette to close the window. Then she went back to him, and kneeled by his feet, gazing deeply into his bloodshot eyes. She cupped his face, trailing her cold delicate fingers across his jaw line, and watched, fascinated, as his eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into her touch, placing his hand over hers, as if afraid she would pull back. Broken creatures would always be the most beautiful.

“I thought you’d left...”

“It’s raining.”

He smiled, letting out a wet chuckle. “Of course.”

“Do you want me to go?”

His eyes shot open. “No!” He laced his fingers with hers, the touch more intimate than expected. “That’s the last thing I want.”

She admired their hands together, feeling the warmth seep into her, and wondered about his state. In worlds of magic, emotions were highly influenced by the heart. One could survive without a heart, as long as it was not destroyed, but the side effect was the loss of emotional intensity; emptiness. She had heard of people pulling out their own hearts after suffering shattering heartbreaks; cowards, in her opinion. Once, she wondered if someone had removed her heart when she was young, despite the fact that she was able to feel it. Now, she wondered if this had been done to him. Reaching out with her free hand, she brought her fingers to his neck, and felt the steady heartbeat beneath her fingertips.

“You have a heart.”

He gulped at her words.

“Should it be beating so steadily,” she asked, searching his eyes for an answer but he looked away.

“You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

“Your feet.” He stood, picked her up, and she yelped in surprise, weaving her arms around his neck for support. He laid her gently on the sofa. “I’ll get the med kit,” he said but he didn’t move. “Don’t leave.”

She kneeled, resting her elbows on the back of the sofa, and stared through the window. “I have nowhere else to go.”

“I’ll get you something to wear, as well.”

She hummed in acknowledgement, listening to the wooden floor creak as he moved about, and admiring the dark forest outside. The light from the oil lamp turned the glass into a mirror, and Cruella found herself studying her new appearance—at least, it felt new. The image wasn’t clear but she could tell the evident changes; her face and lips were fuller, her eyes slightly wider, and her hair was longer and fair. Once, she had longed to see that reflexion in the mirror, now it did not match her so well. She had grown used to the black and white hair, and heavy dark makeup to match.

David laid a tower of furs, blankets, and several shirts of his beside her, along with a pillow; then he kneeled by her feet, and started tending her wounds. “This may hurt a bit,” he said, wetting a piece of cloth in freezing cold water, and gently dabbing it over the blood.

The mild stings of pain didn’t bothered her much. She pulled down the straps of her bra, unclasped it, and tossed it to the side, chuckling at the small twitch of his hands. “Oh, don’t be so shocked, darling,” she said, teasingly, looking at him over her shoulder. “It’s just skin.” He made an effort to focus on her feet after that. She started looking through his flannel shirts. “So, tell me, how did you end up in such... predicament?”

He put the bowl of water aside, and sighed, grabbing the antibacterial cream. “I guess I do owe you an explanation...”

“Yes, you do,” she said, holding up a red and black chequered shirt.

“Okay. Have you heard of the second Dark Curse?”

“You mean, one wasn’t enough...” She tossed the shirt aside, and held up a yellow and... was that green? She tossed this one aside as well, and grabbed another.

“Well, long story short, we were having some problems with the Wicked Witch of the West.” He squeezed a dollop of antibacterial cream onto his finger, and applied it over the wounds. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. Regina and Snow prepared the potion, and... I gave away the final ingredient.”

She turned, looking at him flatly. “I happen to know what the final ingredient is, darling, and you are quite alive; I assure you.”

He huffed out a humourless laugh. “If only... After casting the curse, Snow begged Regina to split her heart in half; one half for her, the other for me. You know, I think I kind of worked it out. That part about emptiness in your heart that can never be filled – that’s the part I got.”

He covered each of her wounds with a sticking plaster, and rubbed the side of her foot in a comforting gesture; then he got up, gathered the med kit and the bowl, and walked away.

She looked down on the black and white chequered shirt on her hands. Yes, that made sense. While his wife went about her life with a clear consciousness, he struggled to make it to the end of the day. He was alive but unable to live.

She slipped into his shirt, buttoning it up to just below her breasts, and let herself fall back on the sofa, letting out a pleased groan; it was even more comfortable than it looked. The fire would have been a welcome addition but now that she thought about it, she preferred being cold at being _dead_ cold; the smoke could reveal her whereabouts.

David rubbed his palms together. “God, I’m freezing!” he said, grabbing the willow basket, and setting it by the fireplace.

“I don’t think lighting a fire is such a good idea.”

It took him a moment to understand but he eventually stepped away from the fireplace. “I guess we still have blankets...”

“And furs,” she added, delighted. “However did you get these, darling?”

“Well,” He grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around his body, and sat on the other side of the sofa. “I hunt.”

She sat up, bending her knees, and grabbed the light brown fur. “Bears?”

“It was either it or me. At the time it felt like a good idea.”

Cruella bit her lip. She couldn’t hunt herself but the idea of seeing him do it was arousing. “Did you eat it?”

“A little. It tastes pretty good if you know how to cook it.”

“And he cooks. What a fine catch you are.”

“Well, I wasn’t born into royalty, you know.”

No, she actually didn’t. “So, Prince Charming isn’t a prince at all?”

He chuckled. “Hardly. I grew up with my mother, in a small farm. Turns out I had a twin brother, and he was the prince. I’m only prince by marriage.”

“Hmm. Not bad for a farm boy.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Look how well that turned out.”

Cruella hugged her knees, and admired his downcast face. She wanted to make him feel better, somehow; gift him with an emotional chain that would bound him to her. “I want to try something. Close your eyes.” She kneeled, and moved closer, settling between his legs.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “I don’t... know.”

“Oh, come on! It will be special, I promise.”

“What kind of special?”

“Trust me.”

He gazed into her eyes for a long moment. “Why should I trust you?” Even as he spoke the words, his eyes lowered in shame but she brought his face up.

“Because I am trusting you,” she said, and she was. Cruella De Vil was highly selective with the people she let in. Throughout her life, only one person had proved worthy of her attention, and he was the second to achieve it. Alongside the bloodlust, the narcissism, and the mind-games, he would find tenderness, and he would find that, though she put no one’s interests before her own, due to her selfish nature, she could raise hell to defend those who mattered to her.

He closed his eyes.

A wide smile stretched across her lips. She took his face in her cold hands, and turned his head to the side, noticing the flutter of his eyelids “Ah-ah! No peeking.”

“Fine,” he complained, pressing his eyes tightly shut.

Cruella took a deep breath. This was probably the most innocent, and the most intimate thing she’d ever done. Bringing his head close, she gently pressed his ear over her chest.

David stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“Shh. Can you hear it?” she whispered.

“Wha-” The word caught in his throat, cutting off his breathing, and then he relaxed against her body. “Yes,” he whispered. His arms came around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and he chuckled at the flutter of her heart. “I can hear it.”

She became acutely aware of her heartbeat; once steady, like his, now threatening to go out of control. She had never allowed herself to be so vulnerable but this was part of winning him over; trust. Not just his but hers.

As soon as it came, the moment was gone. His arms retreated to his side, leaving her cold, and her hands fell from his face. No, she didn’t want this. It wasn’t enough. She tried to search his eyes, wondering if she’d done something to disrupt the safe atmosphere they created, but he gently pushed her back, and got up.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, grabbing his boots by the door, and putting them on. His voice was distant, cold even.

Cruella panicked inside. “Where will you sleep?” She asked, with a sliver of hope he quickly crushed.

“I’m going home. You’ll be safe here. Good night.” He closed the door behind him, and stepped into the raging storm, without so much a look.

“Good night, prince...”

She didn’t know what to think. He said she made him feel; he cried when he thought she had ran away, and yet he chose to spend the rest of his night miserable instead of spending it with her. She had opened up to him, she had been kind, and he threw it away. For the first time in her life, Cruella felt the stab of rejection.


End file.
